


The Eyes of a Follower

by lightline



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: The Commune, bit of a ramble, induced by Keaton Henson's new album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightline/pseuds/lightline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments at the Commune</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes of a Follower

His fingers dance over the table top in an unknown rhythm as he regards his surroundings, the surroundings that are a reminder of a life left unattended. Left to rot, left to tarnish as the years had progressed, marring the painted surfaces and scarring the wooden. The whole house is an echo of time, posters pinned up from 5 years ago that survived the horror and terror of the Rising.

The mottled grey of his skin only compliments this, a sign that the cure has not taken hold, that the promised results would never transform what he had once desired. That all hope he had in science has left a hollow heart and a weary mind. Perhaps it could be rebuilt one day, with gentle coaxing and realistic results, but who knows how long that will take, days, months, years. 

‘Go’ They had told him, told him to seek the commune, to spread the word. To speak of the Undead Prophet and of the Redeemed, reassure the masses of their undeniable beauty. That their scars were a sign of strength, that their stories were to be hailed, not locked away. He had never meant to be a preacher, preferring to stay to the shadows in his living days, safe in the knowledge that drugs would guide him through his waking hours, let him hallucinate and construct a fantasy of hope, of escape. 

There is that ache every now and again, that pulls on old heart strings. An ache for such an escape, to go back on this second life, to seek out the needle, seek out the powder even though it would have no effect. It seems an easier way to get out of the situations he finds himself in, allows him to imagine that he is human, not some mockery that he had once wanted to hide away. 

_Stay strong._ It is a mantra that rings in his mind, that sings in his veins as he reaches the dead ends. When he meets a wall of memories and nightmares, the roar of his fathers voice, the numb pain of the knife on his spine, catching bone. Keep pushing forwards, keep following the words of the informed. He can’t help feeling that he is a pawn in the system at points, a mere point of call, a solider. But it is all that he has. 

‘Mr.Disciple.’ The phrase is repeated once more before he focuses on the speaker, the girl with the flowing skirts and the infectious smile. The one who smiles at him on those mornings by the lake, whilst he speaks of the promised land, the promised era of unity and equality, when all sins have been redeemed. Amy Dyer. 

He can list perhaps a handful of facts about her, procured from others and her own tongue. The fact that she rose in Roarton, a place of almost mythical reputation, the fact that she can sing the whole of the Sound of Music soundtrack. But she has her secrets, has her worries, for all the emotions that play out on her gentle expressions. The way she attaches herself onto people, forms relationships with the drop of a hat, the Disciple can’t help but feel that she’s yearning for something, a desire just to be…wanted. Amy Dyer.

‘It’s time for church, play us a song, won’t you?’ She is whimsical, an optimist trapped in a pessimistic world, hung up on the words of postcards he has seen her reading. Seen her venturing out to fetch from the nearby post office, smiles secretly and unknowingly. Perhaps he has taken too much of an interest in seeking out her friendship, can tell in her eyes that she believes he seeks a different relationship. He doesn’t want to hurt her, needs to tell her, but not yet. 

He straightens from his hunch, following her out the door, the banners of his beliefs looming over him, a clenched fist reaching for the sky. Freedom. Liberty. Equality. The hope of the dying, the hope of the living.


End file.
